


Some Assembly Required

by Mokulule



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, But honestly there's a lot of angst, Don't copy to another site, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, beware the feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-08 22:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mokulule/pseuds/Mokulule
Summary: Luke desperately call out for help in the force. Darth Vader finally gets his hands on his elusive son, but he doesn't quite get what he expected.





	1. Placeholder

Chapter 1 - Placeholder

 

All he remembers is pain and questions. He’s not really sure how he got away from them; the men in blood-splotched white and their questions. He hobbles down the street, his left leg shoots fresh pain up his body with every step. He wants nothing more than to lie down, but the one thing he does know, is that that would be a mistake. So he continues down the small back road, avoiding trash heaps with a stagger. 

The light drizzle turns pink as it mixes with both fresh and dried blood and runs down his exposed skin. The native rodent-like creatures peak out of their nests in every crack, attracted to the scent of blood. They watch him with small glitteringblack eyes. It should probably frighten him that they might attack and eat him, but at least that would be an end; there was no end where he came from, no relief. 

He walks on, he can’t stop yet. He turns right, leans the mangled mechanical mess that is his right hand on the corner as he does so. Almost safe, something tells him, just a bit further, help is coming. 

Oo o oO 

The rescue mission is a long shot, especially after so long, but Luke Skywalker is important, not just to the cause, but personally to a great many people in the Alliance. The rebel agent, codename Snap, had noticed the military base being in uproar and carefully made his way towards the base; using the flat rooftops since they were safest - at least until the patrol ships inevitably came online.

By sheer coincidence dirty orange catches his eyes down in an alley, and it takes longer than it should to recognize the well-liked commander of Rogue Squadron. He looks like he’d been through Hell; thin and bruised, pale as death, limping, the prosthetic right hand a jumbled mess of exposed wires and machinery.

Snap turns on his comm “I have visual on the commander, I’m gonna make my way to him. Get ready for extraction.” Cheers erupts in his headset. He starts to look for a way down but then he sees _him_ ; Vader rounding the corner the commander had rounded only moments before. The agent ducks down, fright near closing his throat.

With shaking hands he activates his comm again.

“V-Vader’s here. I can’t extract the commander,” he rasps into the comm, regret like an iron hand weighing down his chest.

Oo o oO 

Help is almost here. He can stop now.

Heavy rhythmic breathing fills the air. He feels a chill run down his back, the sound awakening some kind of conditioned response. He turns around. A shadow towers over him in the alley, dark tendrils reaching for him.

“Luke,” the shadow says. He can feel the longing behind the harsh modulated voice. Luke is a name. Is it his name? It sparks no sense of familiarity. He merely looks at the shadow, pain in his every rasping breath, waiting for what happens now. He can’t run.  

The shadow envelopes him, and he is lifted off the ground. He gasps in pain as his left leg is jostled.

“Easy, young one, I have you now, you can _rest_.”

There is something about that last word, something that makes it impossible to keep his eyes open. Blessed peaceful darkness creeps into his vision, he falls asleep to the regular hiss of a respirator. 

Oo o oO

Snap carefully looks over the edge of the building, cursing inwardly for not getting there earlier, though a small part of him, one he isn’t proud of, is relieved, that he didn’t find the commander earlier; if he’d been down there, he’d be dead. He keeps his breathing as silent as possible as he takes in the scene. He can’t quite believe what he sees. Vader pulls off his massive armor weave cape, wraps it gently around the commander and lifts him into his arms. 

He can only stare as Vader carries the rebel commander off, the short commander childlike in the arms of the dark behemoth. He wonders if he should just maybe leave that part out of his report.

Oo o oO

He wakes up, stares up at a gray metal ceiling. He turns his head. He’s in a relatively big room, the lines harsh and angular. There is nothing personal in this room. The bed is more of a bunk and the desk across the room is empty. 

He sits up, the lack of pain makes him feel light and floaty. He doesn’t quite feel connected with himself, but then maybe that’s natural, since he doesn’t know anything about himself. He lifts his right arm in front of his face, remembering that it had been a prosthetic. The mangled mess he’d noticed before has been replaced with a perfunctory replacement; it has no synth skin and the sensory feedback is therefore minimal.It is made of some light metal alloy that’s a dull golden-brown. He opens and closes the hand experimentally, moves the fingers individually. The feedback is a bit delayed.

His gaze travels up his arm to notice the short-sleeved loose shirt he’s wearing. It’s a dull light gray. Gray seems to be the preferred color of this place. A shudder works itself up his back and phantom pain itches across newly healed skin; something about the harsh lines and the particular gray shades are like the halls of _that_ place. He feels blood rushing to his head, nausea makes his vision swim. He’d escaped! He remembers escaping… sort of. He at least remembers being safe, protected. 

The door opens and the _Shadow_ enters as if summoned. Reflexively he relaxes. The dark means relief.  

He looks closer at the shadow and realizes it’s not actually a shadow, or phantom or whatever he’d imagined in his pain infused haze; it’s actually a man or maybe a droid of some kind? No, a man, human, something tells him, despite the being’s towering height, the black expressionless mask obviously designed to inspire fear, and that constant regular kaa-hiss of his breathing.

Strangely the shadow just stands there in the doorway, hesitating for some reason. He stares back, he’s not afraid of the shadow. It takes a moment and it’s almost like the darkness reaches out and touches him, feels his lack of fear. It’s like he can hear the shadow give a big sigh of relief, though no such thing is apparent in the stock still giant.

“You have accepted the truth then, Luke.” The shadow speaks in a booming rumble, at odds with the hesitant almost-fear he feels from the darkness still enveloping him.

He blinks. That’s the second time the shadow’s called him Luke. It still feels unfamiliar, but a nudge tells him it’s the truth… He doesn’t think that’s the truth he’s supposed to have accepted, though. 

“Luke?”

The shadow moves closer and he tilts his head upwards awkwardly to keep their gazes locked. When the shadow reaches the bed he kneels down and Luke gratefully lowers his head into a more natural position. He has a feeling the shadow kneels in front of very few beings. 

The shadow makes an aborted motion with a leather-clad right hand. Then it’s almost like he scolds himself and he reaches out. Slowly and gently, like Luke will break otherwise, the hand cups his left cheek. The worn leather is soft. 

Tears spring to his eyes and the shadow makes a move to retract the hand in alarm, but Luke grabs it and holds it in place. Luke doesn’t remember when he last was touched without intent to harm. He _must_ have been at some point, right? When he tries to remember he’s met with a great big nothing. He remembers nothing but the pain, and the questions he doesn’t know the answers to, and it’s unbearable to even contemplate letting the hand go; this offer of comfort. 

“Luke?" The shadow-man repeats, sounding almost lost. 

Luke doesn't know what he wants from him, so he opens himself up, tries to convey how empty he is. 

There’s a sense of sudden understanding, then red hot anger burns him. Luke throws himself backwards, heart pounding, eyes wide. He smacks the back of his head against the wall. Pain doesn’t register, only fright; he’s trapped, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

A shield slams down between Luke and the shadow-man, keeping the burn from him, but the cool darkness is sucked behind it as well. His breath hitches. Alone, he’s all alone, alone and empty. He curls up making himself as small as possible. Small insignificant, alone, no one. 

It takes a while for him to realize that the harsh commanding voice is talking. It takes an even longer while to understand the words. There’s dissonance between the words and the tone of voice - like maybe it’s not his real voice?

“…Luke… Luke… Respond to me… Luke, I will not hurt you… you have my word…”

Luke looks up, and he stops talking. He can’t sense anything of the man’s intentions behind the shield, but he’s reaching a hand out to Luke. He can still feel the soft leather against his cheek, his heart aches for contact. Luke inches closer, warily watching the glaring immovable mask. Hesitantly he reaches out and takes the offered hand. 

“Who-“ Luke croaks, clears his throat, wonders briefly how long ago it’s been since he’s used his voice for actual words, “who are you?”  

He’s still not getting any sense of emotion from the man and the stare he’s leveled with is that much more uncomfortable. What goes on behind that fearsome mask? Why is his identity apparently such a difficult question to answer?

Finally there’s a shift of something in the air. 

“I am your father.”  

It’s the truth, Luke knows, like he knows Luke is his name despite it only starting to feel familiar. He feels his heart soar with an emotion he’s not accustomed to, but it’s a good feeling. He lets go of the hand, slips off the bed and embraces the still kneeling man, his _father_.

The shield splinters in a thousand pieces, their connection snaps back into place, his father’s pure unadulterated shock projected towards him. It takes a moment, but then arms awkwardly fold around his back in return, like they’re out of practice. The shock is replaced by something light, an emotion Luke can’t name, but it’s good and light and almost bubbly. He’s feeling the same. The shadows don’t seem quite so deep. 

Luke is safe here, protected. He relishes in the physical contact. His father who he expected to feel cold somehow, is warm. Like he radiates heat from beneath the armor. 

Oo o oO

Vader stares out the viewport in his office. Fists clench angrily. His son’s torturers had gotten off too easy, a swift death had been too merciful.But then anything more elaborate might have piqued his master’s attention. Revealing that this had been more than a simple prison break. 

Vader dares not even contemplate, what his master would do to Luke as he is now, ripe for molding him into whatever he wishes; A blank slate, traumatized and touch-starved. His mental shields rudimentary at best, his connection to the force suffering from overexertion, but oh so open. 

Luke, the foolish stubborn boy, had locked himself away in his mind; a force technique known as _disassociation._ Developed specifically to resist interrogation, it leaves the barest framework of a personality behind with no access to any explicit memories aside from the most basic of facts; like what a ship is, or what a father is. He will still be able to fly a ship and hit his targets with an almost eerie accuracy, but he won’t remember how he learnt this. It is in theory a good technique, but in reality it leaves the user woefully unprotected against manipulations from other force-users. 

What is information compared to a powerful puppet?

Vader half wants to find a way to revive cursed Obi-Wan just so that he can kill him again. Considering Luke’s rudimentary force training though, it seems more likely that in his desperation he’d rediscovered the technique, rather than having actually been taught it. It poses a whole different problem; there’s a large risk he hasn’t left a trail for himself to come back…

He has his son in his grasp at last. He’s not running anymore, he doesn’t even remember he _should_ run. His trust in his father is absolute. The things Vader could do… He lays a hand flat on the transparisteel showing the hypnotic blue lines of hyperspace. It would be a simple matter to construct memories and implant them as truth. Luke’s mind would be desperate for them like water to the desert sand. 

Only Piett knows the boy is even here, and he will not tell. He can train him in secret, and with Luke by his side victory against his Master will be assured. His Master has foreseen the threat Luke can become. It should be a foregone conclusion, yet he hesitates. The weakness of Anakin Skywalker brought forth by the events of Bespin, by Luke’s haunted eyes, red tinted as Vader’s entire world, when he would rather throw himself to his death than join Vader. 

The scene has played in his mind again and again, disrupting his carefully maintained shroud of anger and hatred, paving way to weaker emotions; fear, sorrow, rejection. He hasn’t quite been himself since Bespin, his anger usually so potent drowned by the overwhelming rejection. He’s gone through the motions, chasing and crushing rebel activity, but he has to admit he hasn’t been quite so vicious and singleminded about it as he was wont to be. 

Luke’s cry for help had been like an awakening. It’d reached him from half a galaxy away, he’d felt a renewed purpose. The Luke, who’d rather die than join him, had called for him. It was like acceptance. He had finally accepted their connection and therefore accepted Vader. With his ambitions relit, he’d struck down, the very embodiment of anger and vengeance. Or at least that’s what he’d thought would happen.

The imperial base was in an uproar when he arrived. Alarms blared in the otherwise silent night. Search parties were being sent out, the city put into lockdown. He’d arrived without announcement and was barely noticed in the chaos. Weaving himself in a powerful force suggestion to look elsewhere and forget him took care of the rest. Like a wraith he moved for the detention block. It was easy to find; it was the silent eye from which the storm had sprung.

“I don’t know what happened,” the interrogation officer said to the stormtrooper commander as he’d entered the hallway. They were standing outside an open doorway leading into an all white cell, lit with harsh unnatural yellowish lighting. Vader stepped closer and he could see the disfigured remnants of chains hung centrally from the ceiling. Below on the floor was a drain and a pool of drying blood sluggishly making it’s way between the bars. By the wall to the right was an overturned hover-table with bloodied tools and used syringes lying around it. 

“I was sure he was about to finally break, but it was like something else snapped in him.” The officer rubbed a sore spot on his head. “I can’t explain what he did… Just, I woke up by the wall, Hanson impaled by his own knife,” he waved at another interrogation officer dead by the wall, “and he was just gone.” 

Vader clenched his fist and the officer’s head turned until it snapped. The trooper spun around and his fear permeated the air in the hallway, a hallway that already reeked of the pain and fear imprints left in the force by all previous prisoners visiting that cell, but most strongly by Luke. And Vader, he didn’t even have to will it, his anger was so potent. The trooper’s limbs twisted impossibly as he passed him into the room. His scream cut off by his death.  

The room was even worse. It was like being slapped in the face with Luke’s horrific screams. Impressions of pain-confusion-fear battered at his shields. _Please, just leave me alone. I don’t know. Help. Someone. Anyone. I can’t. I can’t. Aaaaergieeeh. Please. Please._ Vader forcibly doubled his shields, reducing his son’s pleading to a haunting whisper. He looked around, noted the camera in one corner and knew there was nothing more for him here. As he walked out he didn’t see the long cracks crawling up the walls. 

The surveillance room was next, it was a simple matter to call the right cell to the screen. He went back to the beginning, noting the date was 3 weeks ago. Luke was bound to a chair above the drain, his dirty and torn orange flight suit a stark contrast to the otherwise white and bare room. He had a nasty graze down the right side of his head, and he looked a bit nauseous. Vader surmised he likely had a concussion which explained why he’d not simply freed himself with the force. 

The two interrogation officers walked in, Hanson got right into Luke’s face.

“Let’s start with a name, rebel scum.”

Three things happened in rapid succession; Luke grinned, Hanson slapped him, the screen cracked. 

Vader realized he didn’t have time for this. Nobody here knew the escaped prisoner was Luke Skywalker. If Luke had given up his identity in between then and now, Vader would have been contacted. He copied the files to a datachip and deleted the records thoroughly, deleting a couple of other records and scrambling the other filenames to make it less obvious which ones had been deleted. 

As he left, dark cape swinging behind him, a wave of his hand made the rest of the cell doors slide open. By the end of the night the corridors and cells would be littered by dead prisoners, troopers and interrogation officers alike. It was likely a few prisoners would even manage to escape.  

He felt a dark satisfaction thinking about the investigation team that would eventually be dispatched to try and make sense of this. 

Vader had followed the trail of his son, slipping away as unnoticed as he’d arrived. 

Now the datachip sits innocently on his desk. He’s yet to even plug it in. It hadn’t mattered to him. He had expected maybe some more denial of their connection, maybe refusals to turn to the dark side once his son was out of the bacta. The things, Luke had been through, had only mattered in so far as they had pushed Luke to contact him, to acknowledge their connection, and fanned the flames of Vader’s anger towards those who had hurt him.  

He looks at the chip now, wondering if he’ll recognize the moment Luke disappeared. He wonders how long the officers continued torturing his boy even though he was incapable of giving a single answer, the answers lost with Luke’s memories. He suspects Luke retreated not long before Vader heard the call for help. The boy, hurt and afraid, would have simply called for anyone who would have heard him, instinctively following their connection even millions of lightyears across the galaxy, not knowing that Luke would have rather died before contacting his father; that he had, in a way, died.

The call for help had not been Luke accepting him. 

Oo o oO

Luke likes fixing things, he decides, screwing the last of the plating back on. The mouse droid beeps a thanks at him. It drives a couple of happy circles around him, now without the nasty clunking sound, before leaving out the small access port next to the door. 

He turns back to his box of scraps, gifted to him by his father along with tools as a way to keep himself occupied. He continues sorting through the parts, looking for things that feels like they fit together.

He doesn’t see his father much, usually only once a standard cycle. It is kind of lonely, but he can always feel his father’s dark presence, knows that he would come if he asks for it. The mouse droids bring him food, which is how they’d figured out he will fix them up if they have trouble; apparently that kind of thing is rumored fast.

He knows he’s on some kind of very large ship. If he stretches he can almost feel the life and bustle of thousands of people going about their days and nights. The vessel’s night cycles are only marginally less busy. Yet Luke is contained in this room; his bed, his desk, a fresher, a closet filled with nondescript loose dark clothing roughly his size and a single black outfit, the box of scraps and his new tools.There is nothing else. No old holos or worn clothes, it’s all new. Before his father gifted him those tools there had been nothing that was remotely personal. 

Luke stares unseeingly down at the hydrospanner in his mechanical hand, a feeling of frustration welling up in his chest. He’s not stupid, he knows he’s some sort of prisoner. He also knows his father is trying to protect him from something. 

He’s had a lot of time to think about those questions he was asked. They wanted the location of a base and they’d called him rebel scum multiple times - so he might be a rebel. The place he’d escaped from had definitely been military. Now the big question is, are father and son on opposite sides? 

Why else would he have been hidden away like this? If the other people on this ship are allies, it makes no sense, and his father is definitely someone high up the chain of command…

He leans back against the wall and looks at the ceiling. Maybe they’d had a falling out and been estranged, fighting on opposite sides, but when Luke had been… arrested? He’d come to pick up his wayward offspring. Luke feels the corner of his lips tilt up. Maybe he’s something of a delinquent. 

The half smile falls away, as he looks at the door. He can open that door if he wants too. The lock is simple, he knows the intricacies of it with the same sense he uses to sense what is wrong with the mouse droids. He knows if he wills it, the door will open. 

He doesn’t open the door.

If he’s honest with himself he’s afraid. Afraid to find out the truth. Afraid he will break this spell of a brief respite and be thrown back to _that_ place. The thought runs cold down his back. Was he always this afraid? He thinks not, but he can obviously not be sure. He could be the largest coward the galaxy has ever seen, for all that he knows. He doesn’t know if there’s anything out there he’s supposed to fight for, some purpose to his existence other than this limbo.  

It is not today he finds out. Today he’s too afraid and he hates himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day to you all, hope you enjoyed this first chapter of Some Assembly Required. This story is almost done, so I hope to manage a weekly updating schedule.  
> Hence next chapter will be up Saturday 19th.  
> If there are any tags you think are missing, feel free to tell me.
> 
> Also thanks goes to a special group of people who are amazing at keeping up my passion for writing, you know who you are!


	2. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time on Some Assembly Required Vader discovered Luke had locked himself in his mind, as time passes he worries because Luke has yet to regain his memories.

Chapter 2 - Breaking Point

 

Cycles pass. The door stays locked except for his father’s visits. 

Luke can tell he’s restless and worried about him not gaining back his memories. He tries, he really tries, but no matter what he does he can’t remember anything from before. The closest he comes, is the feeling of rightness he feels with tools in hand. Anything else has just resulted in a severe headache.

One morning he had looked at the exposed metal of his right hand and wondered if he was really flesh and blood. Maybe he was a droid set back to factory standards after a wipe? What else could explain such a thorough lack of identity. When his father had found him staring fascinated at the way his red, red blood dripped from the self-inflicted cut down his arm… Suffice to say the result had not been pretty. He’d had to promise not to do something like that ever again.

It still doesn’t really assuage Luke’s doubts about being a person. He feels like a template, the bare minimum to keep the body he inhabits alive. 

There’s something looming in the distance, like a sandstorm you’re unsure of the direction of yet. His father probably feels it as well, and Luke is weak like this. They’ve been working on shielding his mind. It is fast becoming an obsession. Luke does his best for his father’s sake, but finds it hard; hard to care to protect something he doesn’t find worthy of protection.

 

Oo o oO

 

Luke is not getting better. 

Two weeks have gone by since Luke awoke and there’s still no sign of his memories returning. Vader is becoming increasingly agitated. He’s certain now that Luke hadn’t left any way back for himself. 

His connection to the Force is extraordinary like this. Because of his lacking memories to reference reality against, he listens exclusively to the force. Vader knows it is the only thing keeping him mildly sane, the fact that he can feel people around him, that he can keep track of Vader even when they are not physically together. The boy craves companionship. 

He suspects that is part of the reason, why he just can’t shield. Vader has seen him try until sweat dotted his brows and he was panting, with nothing to show for it. The lack of progress angers him, but he cannot be angry around Luke without hurting him, so he’s reluctantly let the shielding lessons go these last two cycles. 

Instead they’ve started building a small hover droid out the remains of an old training remote. It has been, dare he say, enjoyable. Luke’s simple joy infectious across their bond, almost taking his mind off the pain of every breath forced into his lungs. 

He worries. It is only a matter of time before his Master requests his physical presence. Empire Day is coming up and his Master likes to have him there for the celebrations, though he knows Vader hates it. There is no way he can conceal Luke from him if they near Imperial Center as Luke is now.

“Milord,” Admiral Piett interrupts his chain of thought, “we’re coming up on the rebels.”

Vader focuses back on the viewport actually seeing the rebel frigates they have cornered near the Cron Cluster asteroid field. 

“Lay down cover fire, and scramble the fighters. I’ll join them myself.” He barely hears the admiral’s agreement, as he stalks away towards his TIE. He can use a distraction and nothing like dusting some rebels to provide that.

 

Oo o oO

 

The ship vibrates wildly underneath Luke’s feet. All around him people are alert, preparing for something. He feels all the little dots of lights that are the crew of the ship scurrying around. Strangely he also feels life outside of what he knows to be the constraints of the ship; small zipping fireflies.

The first little light disappears with a death cry and Luke whimpers, freezing in place. The second and third soon follow. Luke can’t tune out the cacophony of death. He scrambles onto his bunk, hides in the corner. He tries to be small, but every death is a nail in his skull. He covers himself with his blankets, but nothing deafens the sounds. 

Desperately he tries pulling up a wall as his father had tried to teach him. It’s feeble and brittle, and it crumble over and over again. He’s shaking all over. Cold sweat on his brow. Breath fast and shallow. Colored dots dance like star bursts behind his eyelids. He’s nauseous and so, so afraid. 

He reaches for his father in the mess of death, but the screams rise up in response and he flinches back into himself like a scolded child. 

He has no idea how long it lasts; just too long.

The silence is deafening, like static, and he can’t quite believe it. He sits there, still like prey, just waiting for it to start up again. He doesn’t know how long he sits there. He wipes a hand over his face and it comes away sticky with snot and tears. He doesn’t have it in himself to care. He sniffles.

He desperately wants his father, but he dare not reach out, afraid he will trigger a repeat. He swallows and coughs, his throat is parched. He looks over at the water bottle on his desk with longing eyes.

Clenching his jaw, he slowly extends a leg, lets the foot slowly touch down flat on the floor; the wild vibrating is gone, replaced with the regular barely noticeable low hum. He sighs in relief. Slowly swings the other leg out of the bunk as well. He still feels shaky and wobbly, and he looks at the short distance between the bunk and desk with narrowed eyes. He can make it.

He does make it, embarrassingly slow and on trembling legs, but he does make it.The first sip of stale, metallic water is heaven, and Luke starts to slowly feel more real, less scattered. 

He raises the bottle for another sip. A distant scream echoes in his mind. He drops the bottle, but doesn’t notice the clang of it hitting the metal floor or the precious liquid spilling out. The scream doesn’t stop. It’s like at once he expands and contracts. He’s back and he’s forward in time. This scream is not death. This is someone being hurt; again and again. 

Numbly he fumbles on the desk, hits the correct button and a holographic chrono-display hovers in front of him. Half an hour of this subtle screaming at the edge of his senses passes, then a small break. A new voice takes up the eerie hymn, like the galaxy’s most morbid relay race.

Luke knows what is going in. Knows it intimately, and phantom pain flares up all over his body. He remembers, even in the relief of being left alone in complete darkness, the others that would take over in the choir of pain and begging. 

It’s all so clear now; a battle in space, prisoners taken and now they are being “interrogated” one by one. 

His gaze snaps to the door, the insurmountable barrier. 

Torture is so very wrong, he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. But worse than the act itself; he might know those people. They could be friends of his. 

Luke’s father is complicit in this… He takes a shuddering breath and pushes that thought away, because it’s too terrible to consider. He is afraid, deadly afraid, of recapture, and really, what business does the shell of a person have to act! But he also can’t do nothing!

He reaches for the door, and wills it open. 

 

Oo o oO

 

The activity that had preceded the battle has died down and left the ship more subdued than usual. He still senses nodes of activity, but not all that many people in the halls. The few are easy to avoid, and the many droids transporting repair parts zipping through the halls cares not one bit about Luke, except the couple of cheerful chirps he get from a couple of mouse droids. He hopes they aren’t instructed to report him. 

He picks a turbolift that feels right and goes down. The screaming is louder now. The lift stops and opens to a hallway. It is lit with only eerie orange half light sitting low on the walls. Heart beating wildly he steps out of the lift. He walks to the end of the hall and waves the door open. It’s a control room, the single connecting room of five hallways, lined with cells on both sides, fanning out from this one room. 

Two half circles of consoles creates a broken circle in the center of the room.

In a show of carelessness the single officer is sitting leaned back in a chair feet up on the console, with his back to the one door leading outside of the cell block, completely confident in the usually locked door.

Luke steps carefully and silently around the console to the leftmost opening. He sees the blaster left on the console by the officer’s side. The officer is unprepared and Luke fast. He has the blaster in hand, changed to stun, and fired before the officer is standing. The man crumbles to the floor. 

Luke looks down at the blaster, the weight somewhat familiar in his hand, though he cannot remember ever holding a weapon before. He must have used a blaster before, enough to be completely familiar with it’s controls. He hadn’t even had to think about it. He shudders, and puts it down as if burned. How many people had he killed or maimed?

He looks to the screen that had the officer so interested and freezes, breath, shallow and pain in his chest. It’s a live feed from cell b25, it’s soundless, but Luke doesn’t need to hear, because he can feel the corresponding suffering. They poke the man with a shock probe, he convulses on the screen, and screams inside Luke’s head. Luke’s left hand tangles in his shirt over of his right flank, there’s a starburst scar underneath, it throbs in remembered pain.

“Why’s the door open?”

Luke spins around, heart in his throat and eyes wide, accidentally knocking the blaster to the floor. He curses inwardly. 

In the doorway stands two tall officers dressed in well fitted green uniforms. The plaque with two red and two blue squares on each their chest designates them as lieutenants. 

They stare at Luke in shock, as he stands frozen.

“What is going on?” The pale one voices, just as the darker one mumbles with realization; “Luke Skywalker…”

The pale one glances quickly at his companion then back at Luke.

His light blue eyes widens.

“You’re Luke Skywalker!” He yells like an accusation and Luke moves. Later he will curse himself for the stupidity of not going for the blaster, but in the moment he merely reacts like a startled Lothcat. 

They are two and they split to surround him. Luke needs to go back to the exit and runs around the consoles thinking it better to meet just one head on. 

The dark haired one comes at him from the front fist swinging. Luke ducks to the side, but then arms fold down in an iron grip around him, locking his arms to his sides. He is spun around to face, the dark one. He looks angry and hateful as he readies for another punch.

“This is for my brother, bastard.” He spits through gritted teeth. 

Luke’s eyes widen in fear; this man will not stop at having him subdued! 

The fist hits his face and he turns his head to make it only a glancing blow against his right cheekbone. It still stings but nothing breaks. 

He grabs ahold of the arms holding him and uses the opponent to hold his weight, lifts his legs off the ground and kicks the angry man in the stomach. The man bends over in pain and fall to the ground. 

The force of the kick pushes the guy holding him into the wall behind them. He hits his head with a groan. The hold on Luke is loosened and he doesn’t waste time. Elbowing the guy in the stomach earns him another groan and Luke breaks free into a dead run.

They call after him and he hears them on their comms ordering the turbolift shut down. Luke runs like he’s never run before and when the Turbolift does stop with a groan of cut power, he punches into the elevator shaft and starts to climb. He can feel the ship come alert around him in a slow wave. 

He leaves the shaft and runs out into a hallway, he doesn’t know where he’s going. He nearly runs into a group of white armored troops, but turns a corner right before delivering himself into their arms. He hears blaster shoots belatedly fired behind him urging him on. 

Desperately he looks for another lift. He just knows he needs to go up. Hands reach for him, but it’s like they are standing still, as he dodges around them easily. Doors open at his will. Another lift stopped, another climb and he feels he is nearly there.

He barely register the two original officers turn into the hallway to his left running at him. They matter not because he needs only run straight ahead.

One last door opens and he careens into his father’s solid black shape. His father is surprised but his dark presence readily enfolds him; _safe_. 

Reality which had seemed warped and strange snap back into place. He feels the shocked people around them, though he doesn’t see them, his face hidden as it is against the black breastplate. 

Hasty footsteps and harsh breaths come from behind him, they stutter to a stop. It’s those two. He stiffens, and sidles as discreetly as he can under his father’s arm and around his body, so that he is hidden beneath the ever present cape.

Confusion permeates the very air.

“L-Lord Vader, sir, that’s Luke Skywalker!” The guy, who had wanted vengeance exclaims breathily.

Luke peeks around his father’s body; he sees a mixture of fear, outrage and that all-permeating confusion on their faces. He feels the way his father internally debates the possible courses of action, and only now realizes how precarious a position he’s put him in. For one single breath he fears he will be handed over, but then he breathes out, trust absolute that his father will not allow him to be hurt.

“Are you suggesting I was not aware of his presence on my ship?” His father rumbles ominously, it sounds like a threat, but Luke recognizes it as a way to buy time.

The guy’s complexion pales to match his partner’s and he steps back with a hurried; “Of course not, sir.”

Luke knows his father has come to a decision when the fabric of the universe itself screams ‘ _change_ ’ at him. Dazed Luke allows his father to bring him back to front. He straightens his back, tries to look more like a person, and less like the being with no substance, that he really is. 

“Luke Skywalker is my son,” His father’s deep baritone reaches every part of the room. He allows the uproar from their audience to die down before he continues, “He was stolen from me by the Jedi the day he was born, and molded into a weapon against me and the empire.” He raises his voice, “But that is over now! You are all witnesses.”

He turns Luke around and Luke automatically meets his gaze, feeling overwhelmedand skin prickly all over by all the people in such close proximity.

“Luke Skywalker, I claim you as son and _heir_ , a prince as you should have been from the beginning.” The silence is absolute, a pin drop would have been heard.

Luke cannot begin to understand what has just happened, but he knows it was significant in the core of his very being. Vader seems to suddenly concentrate his attention on Luke’s face. A black gloved hand comes up and caresses his bruised cheek, the very air around them taking a murderous turn. 

“Who did this?”

The lieutenants who had assaulted him, step back. It is a mistake, his father’s gaze draws to them. 

“Father,” Luke interrupts loudly drawing every eye in the room. He rubs his forehead at the headache building from the attention of so many minds. 

“They didn’t know, how could they? I didn’t even know until recently.” 

He knows it’s the truth as he says it, and not just from his own limited memory, but it also holds true for his forgotten self - who had apparently been raised to oppose his father? The story holds some pockets of truth, and it is certainly his father’s conviction, but he feels there is more to it.

His father considers his point, but finds it insignificant next to his anger and the fact that someone laid hands on his son. His father steps past him. 

The entire room reeks of fear and morbid curiosity, waiting like spectators at an execution, goaded by the cold angry flames of his father’s presence. Luke’s head pounds with a vengeance.

He snaps.

“Enough!”

The attention is back on him, his father turns around in surprise. Luke doesn’t spare him a glance, stalks past him. He sees the fear struck faces of the men who assaulted him. He reaches out a hand, finds the very fabric of the universe bending at his fingertips, and flings the two men up into the ceiling, only to let them fall back to the floor unconscious. He spins around, his anger a terrible thing bubbling in his veins, pointing a finger at his father. 

“I can handle my own retribution!” He spins back around and stalks away. 

Nobody bothers him on the way back to his room, his cell. 

The door closes behind him and he slides down it, the anger fizzling away and leaving behind only the cold emptiness. Fat tears slide down his cheeks, as he hugs his knees to his chest. He should never have gone out. What was it he thought he could accomplish? 

 

Oo o oO

 

Vader stares after Luke with a detached sense of horror. He can’t quite believe what just happened. 

Absently he looks around the room, notices that every shred of doubt that Luke is really his son, has shriveled and died with Luke’s outburst. He considers the fact, that some might even be more scared of Luke than him right now with some small amusement, which sours at the thought that that definitely isn’t what Luke would want. 

Vader had only noticed Luke’s distress moments before the doors to the bridge had opened. That combined with the intruder alert that had just reached the bridge had him itching to see Luke, to make sure he was safe. He’d only just turned around and taken a step in his son’s direction, before he literally collided with him. 

Vader had been left with very few choices at his disposal. Admiral Piett, who didn’t know the truth of their relationship, but was always astute, had looked around the thirty some of his bridge crew and seen a massacre. His already pale face had whitened to a bloodless pallor.

It had been tempting. So very tempting to follow his instincts screaming at him to destroy the threats to his son’s life, especially after the pursuing lieutenant so foolishly announced his son’s identity. His son, who had been _hiding_ _under his cape_ , and the sheer incredulity of that realization had calmed him enough to see that he could hardly explain the deaths of the entire bridge crew to his master, not to mention all the people who might have seen Luke running through the halls. Containing this was an impossibility. 

Another option had been to detain Luke, but to do so believably would have required him to use violence on Luke; something he would hardly understand with the state of his mind. It would destroy all semblance of trust between them. Not to mention he would have been required to hand him over to his Master.

Luke was in danger either way. But making him known, acknowledging him as he’d done, makes sure his Master cannot simply dispose of Luke. Luke cannot simply _disappear_. Vader will make sure of it. Luke will be officially presented at the court, recognized as his heir, broadcast to all corners of the galaxy.

Oh it will make Luke the perfect hostage for his father’s good behavior, for his Master will surely not allow father and son to stay together. But Vader accepts that. His Master will try to gain Luke’s confidence and loyalty while Vader is not there to oversee. He accepts that. That his Master will eventually arrange it so that father and son are pitted against each other. He accepts that. His eventual death, he even accepts that. But Luke’s death, he will not accept.

Luke’s outburst had not only shown Vader, that Luke is a match for him in every way but experience, it had highlighted that Luke is currently a creature of instinct and emotion, with no proper sense of self to anchor himself to. It is why his fear response had been so uncontrolled, it led to the young man hiding under his father’s cape. The reason why the outburst had been so without warning. Vader knows all too well the result of a lack of self - his early years had seen him as no more than his Master’s attack dog, a creature of pure rage and no thought. He had slowly over the course of years built his identity from the ashes of Mustafar into something with a mind that could think and strategize.

Luke does not have years.

“Admiral Piett.” 

“Yes, My Lord,” Piett answers promptly, standing at attention.

“Set a course for Imperial Center.”

Vader leaves the bridge at a brisk pace with his cape flaring behind him.

“You heard Lord Vader, calculate the jumps to Imperial Center. Call in the patrols. Charge the hyperdrive.” The sound of Piett’s no-nonsense voice, raised just enough to easily command the entire bridge, is the last he hears before the blast doors close. Piett will handle things here, Vader has more important things to do.

If Luke will not find his own way back, Vader will just have to bring him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is early, but I'm sick so I could use some encouragement.  
> Hope you enjoyed! Expect next chapter 26th of January.


	3. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piett gives some background and Vader has realized he will actively have to try and bring back Luke's memories.

Chapter 3 - Lost and Found

 

“You heard Lord Vader, calculate the jumps to Imperial Center. Call in the patrols. Charge the hyperdrive,” Piett orders promptly as Lord Vader leaves the bridge. His voice calm and precise, falling back on routine even as his mind is like a five ship pile-up, and everybody is arguing about who’s to blame. He takes a deep breath trying to sort out his thoughts.

There had been a call from the detention level about an intruder, and Piett had just alerted Lord Vader. He was about to take care of things, when the doors to the bridge opened and Luke Skywalker ran into Lord Vader’s arms. The events could have been mistaken for Skywalker accidentally running into Lord Vader, and Lord Vader taking hold of the rebel, but Piett could tell that it was a hug. He could see the way Skywalker relaxed in the dark lord’s hold.

His mind still doesn’t compute that imagery.

Piett had been there when Vader brought Skywalker on board two weeks ago. He wasn’t supposed to have been there. He’d only intended to greet Lord Vader and ask for orders, their departure from their search for the rebels in the Auril sector having been rather abrupt. 

Nearly 4 years spent searching for a single man made sure Piett immediately recognized Luke Skywalker cradled in Vader’s arms and wrapped in his cloak, despite his battered face. 

“Milord,” Piett had _squeaked_ (much to his embarrassment looking back on it now). He had not missed the way Lord Vader, possessively? Protectively? Tightened his hold on the infamous rebel. There was definitely something intimate about the whole thing, and it was not something that was meant to be witnessed.

Lord Vader stared at Piett for the longest time. He had felt cold sweat gather at his neck. He felt sure this time he had outlived his usefulness - a strange almost giddy feeling filled him, this was it. He had been living on borrowed time these past months, ever since Bespin, and it was almost a relief he didn’t have to wait anxiously for it anymore. But like that time, inexplicably, he was spared.

“Admiral Piett,” Vader finally acknowledged, inclining his head.

“Milord,” he’d said voice normal and steady much to his relief. “Do you want me to alert the medic bay?”

“No, have bacta delivered to my personal medical facilities and a medical droid, _discreetly_.” 

Piett had the feeling Lord Vader would have pointed a threatening index finger at him, had he not had arms full of Skywalker. Piett fought down the hysterical laughter that threatened, keeping his face and mind carefully bland.

“Very well, Milord.”

Vader walked past Piett, halted. He didn’t turn, but his dark voice easily carried with a promise of violence.

“I don’t believe I have to spell out the consequences…” He trailed off.

Piett swallowed. “No milord, we are quite clear.”

Piett sighs. His heart still beats like it’s been permanently set to lightspeed. Lord Vader had indeed been quite clear on the consequences if Skywalker’s presence was to be discovered. Once he’d gotten past the initial weirdness of Skywalker hugging lord Vader and then _hiding_ under Lord Vader’s _cape,_ which for the record is the strangest thing Piett has ever seen in his life, he’d recognized the severity of the situation. For a moment he had seen the death of every single carefully selected bridge crew flashing before his eyes. 

At Lord Vader’s announcement Piett’s surprise had been dwarfed by his utter relief.Both relief that his bridge crew was not going to meet an untimely end, but most embarrassingly first and foremost, he was relieved by the familial nature of the relationship between Lord Vader and Skywalker. 

Like any sane person regularly in the presence of Lord Vader, Piett did not speculate in Lord Vader’s obsession with Luke Skywalker. Piett had always firmly believed Lord Vader to be invested in his job and that the extra obsessiveness came from the amount of times Skywalker had gotten away, coupled with the obvious Jedi ties. Lord Vader was known to be particularly merciless towards anyone crazy enough to swing a lightsaber around on the regular. 

It had however been impossible to overhear the numerous speculations over the years, and Piett would be lying, if they hadn’t niggled uncomfortably at the back of his mind recently. The theories had been many and outrageous throughout the years. The intimacy and protectiveness he’d witnessed as Lord Vader tenderly carried the rebel in his arms had lent credence to some _theories_ that should never have seen the fluorescent light of the mess hall. Apparently the idea of Vader having offspring is more farfetched than Lord Vader having some kind of romantic obsession with the rebel pilot…

Piett pinches the bridge of his nose. Relieved, he feels so damn relieved those whispers can finally be laid to rest. Skywalker had been a teenager when Vader started hunting him for Force’s sake! 

“Admiral, patrols have returned,” Captain Venka says and Piett looks up. Venka looks visibly shaken as does the rest of his crew when he glances around. He can do nothing but pretend everything is normal. He takes the datapad handed to him by Lieutenant Gabbet, the navigator, and inspects the proposed route. They can’t reach Imperial Center with their current fuel levels after the battle and Hapes has been suggested as stop for refueling and resupply. He approves the route. 

“Are reports from the rest of Death Squadron in?”

Communications officer Racto stands up.

“Tyrant and Avenger has checked in,” He glances back at his screen when there’s a small beep, “and the rest are go.”

Piett nods; “send them the coordinates and lock the fleet into position for the first jump.”

He looks unseeingly out the viewport as he waits for the all clear. He remembers very well Lord Vader’s urgency as he’d suddenly ordered them off the rebel trail they’d been following in the Auril sector into a series of jumps lead by Lord Vader’s sixth sense. They would jump and Lord Vader would hover over the star maps, making Gabbet and Duine respectively into shaking wrecks, depending on who was the navigator on shift, until he pointed out their next destination. They’d made their way half across the outer rim in 2 tireless days like this, all the way to Rothana in the Abrion sector. 

While Lord Vader had gone down to the planet alone, Piett had made contact with the orbiting Imperial shipyard to learn they had experienced sabotage, but had managed to fight off the rebels without damage to essential structures some weeks ago. They’d received reports from the local governor that a single rebel had been apprehended alive on planet, but hadn’t heard anything since; busy with repairs and TIE quotas to meet it hadn’t exactly been something they cared further about.

Then Vader had brought Skywalker aboard, and what followed had been the strangest investigation into a prison break Piett had ever witnessed. Not so much because Vader was acting differently than usual, he went around with barely suppressed anger punishing those who where incompetent at figuring out what had had happened, but because Piett was pretty sure Vader was the perpetrator. 

He raged at the incompetents who couldn’t even figure out what prisoners were missing; stated haughtily, that obviously there must have been outside help. 

“Figure out the identity of the prisoner they meant to rescue!” Lord Vader had thundered at one of the meetings with the investigation team. His masked gaze ran over the holograms of the governor and the planetary investigators, while the officers from the Executor sat, uncomfortably relieved they were not the target of Lord Vader’s displeasure.

“But Lord Vader the records are all mixed around we have no way…”

“I want results, not excuses! Handle it or find yourself replaced.” The blue hologram of the ISB officer whitened noticeably.

Meanwhile Piett had looked at the report of the twisted neck of an interrogation officer, with no sign of any outside force having been applied, and quietly despaired. He sighed and spoke up at the conference table; “Milord, if I may?”

“Go ahead, Admiral.”

Piett stood, mentally resigned to what he was about to do.

“I would like to turn everyone’s attention to the autopsy report of one Jon Milias Doee _._ Cause of death was deemed a broken neck, yet there are no discernible wounds or otherwise signs of the application of outside force.” He looked at Lord Vader, face carefully straight; “I propose it is the work of a rogue force user.” 

He heard a few scoffs, from the holograms, while his own officers only looked worried, they too understood how very possible it was. When Vader made no immediate response, he plunged in with both legs. “I have taken the liberty of compiling a list of Jedi whose deaths have never been confirmed.” Look what you’re making me do, he quietly told Vader in his mind. 

There was a sound of outrage from the holograms, it was the governor.

“Admiral Piett, don’t tell me you subscribe to that utter nonsense!”

Vader’s head turned like a predator smelling blood. The entire room fell dead silent, except the governor who continued digging his own grave ever deeper.

“Clever parlor tricks, that’s all it ever was! Nobody with half a brain actually…” he silenced abruptly with a gurgle.

“Indeed I suppose this is also a mere parlor trick, Governor.” Vader rumbled, his hand outstretched in that familiar gesture every member of Vader’s officer staff dreaded. The governor’s eyes were starting to roll back. 

“The Force is more powerful than your weak mind can comprehend.” The Governor collapsed and fell out of the sending field, leaving blue staticky air in his place. 

“It is no wonder you haven’t made any progress,” he addressed the remaining holograms of frightened officers. He turned to Piett. “Admiral, transmit the list, this meeting is adjourned.” He looked around the room ominously, “I expect results tomorrow.”

The night of that particular meeting Piett sat down and read the very classified transcript from the medical droid, he’d sent to Vader’s quarters. The datapad wasn’t connected to any network and was meant to go directly to Lord Vader’s desk, but if Piett was to be apart of this, he needed to know what he was dealing with, since Lord Vader had pretty much put him in charge of Skywalker’s recovery.

The list of injuries and their placement had made it rather obvious what had been done to Skywalker. The dehydration and the signs of starvation pointed to the duration of the torture.

Piett sat down the datapad with a disgusted grimace. He really didn’t have the stomach for advanced interrogation. It was his experience that most intel gathered that way was false anyway, the desperate tales of those who would say anything to stop the pain, and so the practice didn’t seem logical to him, though he accepted its existence. 

Knowing what he knows now, when Piett looks back on those 4 days they were overseeing the investigation on Rothana, he realizes another aspect to Vader’s behavior; a lot of the punishment was probably revenge for his son. The charade of the investigation a convenient excuse to wring those necks deemed the most responsible. Most notably the governor, but looking back there was a definite trend towards those of higher rank, and those who worked directly in the detention centre. 

“We’re ready on your command, Admiral,” Venka says.

Piett nods; “Lightspeed in 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1.“ The stars elongate into the blue lines of hyperspace and the floor hums underneath his feet, comforting in its familiarity.

He turns to Racto who’s gathering information from his subordinates at the communications consoles.

“Report.”

“Fleet is holding steady, nobody missed their marks.”

“Good, at ease. ETA in 16 hours. Skeleton crew until…” he checks his chrono, “1400 hours IST. Get some rest.” Piett certainly intends to, after all the excitement; first the battle with the rebels, and now this. He doubts the crew will get much rest, they will surely be busy spreading the news. By his estimate Vader’s announcement will have spread to the entire ship in a matter hours. Bored communication officers chatting during hyperspace will likely make sure it’s spread throughout the entirety of Death Squadron as well. 

He turns to walk off the bridge, leaving Venka in charge, when the two unfortunate Lieutenants lying in the hallway outside catch his attention. He sighs.

“Will someone check on Lieutenants Felt and Brooch, if they are still alive have them sent to medical and send me a report.“

 

Oo o oO

 

The door slides open behind Luke and he falls back against a pair of legs. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t need to, to know it’s his father. He can feel his dark presence reaching towards him hesitantly, even as he physically stands still. Luke curls in on himself and tries his best to draw his presence inwards as well.

There’s a moment where he just listens to his father’s mechanical breath, the steady repetition somehow calming.

“Luke…” His father says, he can feel the melancholy that doesn’t convey into the modulated voice. “We cannot go on like this.”

Luke closes his eyes tightly, feels tears escape. This day was coming he knew that. It could not go on like this. Luke is useless like this. 

“You want real Luke back,” he whispers hoarsely, tears steady drips now. 

His father is stunned into inaction. Luke’s hurt swirls together with his father’s in a loop of feedback so that Luke doesn’t know where his own hurt ends and his father’s begin.

“Luke, please look at me.”

“No, I understand.” Luke gets to his feet, tries to force his voice steady, but it still trembles like the legs of a newborn bantha. He turns around to face his father, but can’t bring himself to meet his eyes just focuses on the control panel on the suit. “I’m a mess. I’m not getting better.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath; “If you can find Luke somewhere in here,” he indicates his head with a wave, “then you should do it.” 

His father’s right hand moves and he flinches back, suddenly desperately afraid. What happens to him once Luke is back? What if Luke is nothing like him? Will he just fade away, like the shade he is?

There’s a strange noise from his father then he’s held against the armored chest, a gloved hand in his hair, a thumb brushing against his temple, the other rubbing slow circles into his back. His breath catches in his throat.

“You are my son,” his father rumbles; “that will never change.”

The breath is let out in a sob and then another. At least someone will remember him. He looks up, and meets his father’s gaze through the mask, then his father tilts his head upwards.

“My Master will tear you apart like this, and he can no longer be avoided. I cannot let that happen.” He looks back down, moves his hand to Luke’s cheek, “I will rather you hate me.”

Luke frowns. “Because I’m a rebel?”

“Because I’m Darth Vader.”

Luke shakes his head, he doesn’t understand what that is supposed to mean. “I could never hate you, you are my father.”

He gets the sense his father might be smiling beneath the mask, but not a happy smile, a sad bitter one. Luke clenches his jaw stubbornly.

“Let’s do this then.”

They move to the bunk. Luke sits down crosslegged face expectant and his father sits down stiffly turning to face him. He reaches out with both hands. There’s a single breath of hesitation, a moment that feels like goodbye, like he’s trying to imprint the image of Luke in his mind. Then he touches his fingers to Luke’s temples. 

 

Oo o oO

 

Vader dives into Luke’s mind smoothly, whatever small amount of protection there in his current state like a sticky film he easily slides through. In his attempts at creating barriers he had managed something a bit more solid, but still easily penetrable for one such a Vader, still it was nice that Luke wasn’t actively trying to keep him out. 

He reaches the previously empty white space of Luke’s uppermost mind that Luke showed him, that fateful day he woke up. It’s not so empty anymore, it’s still very bare, but as he walks further he gets flashes of scenes and emotions. A mouse droid zips happily around his legs. He finds a toolbox and the hover droid they’ve been working on, and standing there he’s enveloped in so many content feelings he has a hard time leaving. 

He forces himself to move on. He walks further. Suddenly something crunches beneath his feet. He looks down, removes his foot to see small grains of sand, with a frown he bends down and pick up a couple, rolls them around between fingers and thumb.

The floor drops under him. He falls. 

He lands roughly in a pile of sand. Filled with annoyance he gets up and brushes the sand away. He looks up and it’s not just a pile of sand. It’s a desert… Of course it has to be a desert. Vader looks up at the twin suns in the midday sky, baking him with unrelenting heat. And not just any desert; Tatooine. He looks around trying to find any landmarks at all. A dry wind blows across the fine sand shifting the dunes like waves of an ocean - the Dune Sea - he remembers the name now. He sees nothing but sand.

“Luke,” he calls. For a moment it is like the world stutters, the wind itself halting for just the space of a breath, before continuing it’s lazy crawl across the dunes. Vader does another turn and now he sees the dark cropped outline of rocks in the distance. Very well, he thinks and starts walking, already feeling the sand trying to find ways into his joints. Even metaphysical sand hates him.

He’s still far from the rock when he sees the flickering smoke; There and gone again as if in constant battle. He walks past vaporators with regular intervals, and realizes where he is going. 

The homestead is not much different from he remembers it: the garage off the side of the actual homestead, which is dug into the ground. The young blonde boy laughing happily as he runs to the garage is different though. He’s struck by the fact that he’s not seeing in shades of red. Unconsciously he reaches for the boy, but the boy flickers like a hologram and then disappears. 

He closes his hand, steadying his emotions and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not just the boy who disappeared, he looks up and the homestead is burning. Dark smoke coils lazily into the air. Blaster marks scores the sides of the buildings. Two scorched and unrecognizable corpses lie near the garage. 

The boy flickers to life in front of the corpses. He’s no longer laughing. His face is drawn in grief, but he doesn’t make a sound. He looks away and disappears again. 

Vader finds himself rooted to the spot. He hates this place. He lost his mother here. Luke lost his guardians here. The grief is heavy in the air, he can’t separate his own from Luke’s. It pushes down on him and he hates it. He focuses on the hate, his old companion, and he takes a step forward. The wind pushes against him. But he forces another step. This will not be what keeps him from Luke. A third step and the ground slips beneath him, slippery sand replaced by rocky ground.

He looks up. Beggar’s canyon rises in front of him, in the distance he sees the high rock formation known as the stone needle. Flying through the narrow eye at the top of the rock, is known as threading the needle, a very dangerous maneuver that has cost many a foolish pilot’s life. Somehow he knows that is where he needs to go.

The canyon is a maze, but he feels on the right course. He finds himself standing at the foot of the stone needle, he looks up, feels he’s close and starts to climb. The suns have left this side of the needle in blessed shade. Sunset is growing closer. He is nearly there, just a few more feet. He drags himself into the eye of the needle.The glare of the sunsets leave him blind. He lifts his arm to shade and squints ahead. He barely makes out a figure sitting on the other edge, watching the sunsets.

“Luke?”

The figure snaps his head back to look at him in horror.

Their surroundings wash away like liquid paint, and they’re back on Bespin. Vader with his outstretched hand, Luke clutching the gantry with his left hand. The right hand is gone and he holds the stump close to his body. His skin is pale and clammy, horror in his face. This is Vader’s nightmare come to life. He did this. He knows how this ends. But here and now if Luke jumps, there will be no Millennium Falcon to save him. If he jumps, only oblivion awaits him and Vader is so force-damn _afraid_.

Luke shakes his head, features horrified.

“No… it’s not true,” his voice breaks, “that's impossible!”

The scene plays along even without his input. It is only the moment Luke glances down the chasm, Vader rips himself free of inaction.

“Luke no!” He screams. Ripples pass over the surroundings. Luke blinks, has a look of confusion. 

“This is not how it goes,” he says to himself.

“Luke we are not on Bespin, whatever you do, do not jump.” Oh how Vader wants to just grab Luke with the force and get him to safety, but the force doesn’t work like this here. This is Luke’s mind, Vader only has the power Luke gives him and only Luke can choose to come back with him.

“I don’t understand,” Luke says looking around, a frown forming on his brow.

“What is the last thing you remember?” Vader urges.

“I-,” their surroundings flash to a brightly lit cell, blood on the floor, sharp instruments, and then back to the gantry. He shakes his head almost overbalancing himself. Vader’s heart leaps into his throat. Then he’s holding onto the gantry again.

Luke’s gaze snap to him, angry frown like a stab to his chest.

“What are you doing here!” He demands, but continues before Vader can answer, 

“It was all fine before you came! How dare you come here!” He screams the words at Vader and there’s a sound like glaciers cracking apart. Vader whips around, sees their very backdrop starting to shatter, a spiderweb of cracks hastily spreading. Between the cracks wisps of dark smoke seem to reach for them. Vader’s eyes widen in alarm and he frantically turns back to Luke.

“Calm down Luke,” he cautions, but it has the opposite effect.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

The gantry starts to crack and with a great shriek of metal it bends, gravity moving it unerringly towards the chasm. Luke screams and Vader freezes, a weight in his chest so great he can’t breathe. The gantry stops finally at a 50 degree downward tilt. Luke only has his left hand and his feet slip again and again as he desperately tries to hold on. 

“I can’t,” he gasps and he’s left dangling from his left hand’s precarious hold. Already the strain is visible in the cold sweat on his face and the pained frown.

“Luke! You have to change our surroundings!” He yells down against the gusts of winds that whip up from below.

“Easier, said than done,” Luke grits out from between clenched teeth, but he tries. He closes his eyes and there’s a ripple and for a moment Vader feels they will be safe, but then the gantry gives up another few degrees to gravity with a shriek and Luke’s concentration is broken.

“I can’t,” he gasps. His face is a startled mix of fear and strain as he looks up. His fingers starts to slip and he tightens his hold with sheer force of will. “I can’t hold on much longer.” 

“I’m coming, just hold on.” Vader responds frantically, stepping over the safety rail and stepping onto the bent gantry. It groans threateningly.

“Don’t.” Luke begs.

“I’m not losing you again,” Vader yells. Sections of wall fall down the abyss only to reveal the utter darkness behind.

There are tears in Luke’s eyes as he looks up. There’s a desperate longing, but he’s also still the same boy who chose death over joining him, who chose three weeks of torture over revealing his name. Stubborn, like his mother.

“Please,” Vader whispers. He sees himself from Luke’s point of view, knows he’s the very symbol of what Luke has chosen to fight, Palpatine’s iron fist. He can never possibly make up for the lives he’s taken. For the friends he’s killed. There is no going back for him. He cannot undo to the past. He’s well aware that he’s a monster, but he’s a monster with a son now. 

Another metallic groan and Vader slides down the strut, landing on the measuring equipment opposite from Luke. He still can’t reach him. There’s no good way to climb closer. He is going to eviscerate whoever designed this structure!

He looks up and sees the small scrap of twisted metal holding them up, sees the cracks eat into their support.

“Take my hand!” He yells reflexively, reaching out.

For a single breath cycle Luke just looks flummoxed and Vader realizes his mistake because;

“You cut off my hand!” The boy screams in outrage and more pieces of the backdrop fall into the abyss. How could he ever take his hand when he’s only hanging on by the barest grip of his remaining hand.

It tastes too much of guilt and Vader has spent the last two decades responding to the barest hint of that despicable emotion with anger.

“You have a prosthetic!” Vader yells back his anger bleeding into his vision like a black shroud. This isn’t Bespin, it’s in Luke’s head and the boy simply refuses to listen to reason. How dare he bring him back here, to the place where he refused him! Luke holds the power to change their surroundings and instead he forces Vader to watch his son dangle over a fall so deep into his subconscious, he could never return.

Luke narrows his eyes at him, glares. His mouth tightens into a stubborn line. Vader’s anger, his defense, vanishes, leaving only cold fear.

“No, Luke,” he implores.

Luke lets go.

For one drawn out second Vader is frozen. He thinks his heart has stopped. He sees the wind whipping Luke’s blonde hair and clothing wildly and his blue eyes stay locked with his in a stare as he falls. He knows the exact shade of Luke’s eyes now, he realizes numbly.

Time seems to have slowed down even as his heart picks back up in a frenzied pace. Vader kicks off the strut and jumps after him. He refuses to watch this a second time.

He collides with Luke in the air, and they spin. Bespin is gone now, there is only darkness now. Shadowy wisps are licking at his son, already starting to devour him, erase him.

Luke looks deeply disturbed at his slow disintegration.

“Allow me to pull you back,” he urges, the words tumbles faster out of his mouth; “you have to agree or I can’t help you. You don’t have to join me, just come back with me…”

Vader bends his neck, he can’t look at Luke. He can’t stand another rejection. He waits for Luke to turn to ash in his hands; as everything else in his life.

“Okay…” Luke agrees.

Vader can hardly believe it, but he does not let Luke reconsider. He holds onto his son with all his might as he seeks back towards his body; the painful husk a beacon he could never loose sight of. His connection, a chain of agony, reels him back impossibly fast and the next he knows he is back in his own dark mind, metaphysically cradling the little light that is Luke. For one glorious moment he holds his son carefully, embraced in his dark soul, a little warmth for his cold heart. Then Luke bucks and fights like a wild thing and he lets go. 

He opens his eyes and sees Luke do the same with a gasp. He reels back away from him and reflexively he reaches for him.

“Don’t touch me!” Luke sneers, and he freezes. Of course it would be like this. He looks at the blue eyes, he now knows the exact shade of. He takes in the way they glare angrily, shuttered from him. He gets to his feet numbly, there’s a pressure in his chest. He had Luke back. He would be safe now. Why does it still feel like he lost him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I will manage to update this next week I will try to, also chapter 4 is getting long so might end up 5 chapters before the end is reached.  
> EDIT: So chapter 4 is actually finished, it's definitely coming up 2nd February at the latest, and there will be 5 chapters.


	4. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter Vader managed to bring Luke's memories back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to KaelinaLovesLomaris for reading it over <3

Chapter 4 - Remembrance

 

“Don’t touch me!” Luke sneers. Glaring at Vader until he leaves the room, ignoring the obvious hurt in the Force. The moment the door closes Luke drops the glare and feels his throat closing in a sob. He buries his face in his hands desperately holding back tears. He remembers _everything_. It is simply too much.

He doesn’t know when he starts screaming, only realizes it when his throat begins to hurt. His hands are in his hair _tugging._ He stares at the room unseeing, his eyes haunted and wild. His breath comes in short harsh puffs in between his screams. Dark dots appears in his vision, and for a moment he blacks out. 

He can’t align his memories properly. There’s the monster who cuts off his hand, and then there’s the father who builds a droid with him. There’s the monster who chases him in his every nightmare and the father who comes to the rescue. The monster that kills and slaughters and the father who holds him so tenderly, so hesitantly. The monster who fights him and batters him and the father who touches his cheek and his hair so carefully, like he is the most precious thing in the galaxy.

The monster that hates, and the father who loves.

His chest hurts and he can’t breathe. He had announced their relationship! Everyone knows on this ship! And soon the entire Galaxy will know. Leia will know and she won’t find out from him. She will know. He sobs. Will she hate him now? How will she understand? He should have told her, that way at least he would have had a chance to explain. He just hadn’t even come to terms with it himself yet and then that mission…

His mind comes to a crashing stop. The mission went wrong. He hit his head, couldn’t focus on the Force. Somehow he’d managed to get captured on such a backwater Imperial world that they didn’t recognize him on sight. He’d thought himself lucky. He laughs throatily at the thought, it turns into hysterical wheezing by the end.

He unwinds his prosthetic from his hair, it pulls a few hairs loose because they got stuck in the bare joints. He feels flashes of blinding pain rushing up his arm just looking at the exposed metal, ten times worse than loosing his hand in the first place. He absently picks the hairs out of the joints with his left hand. 

Suddenly he needs to see. 

He tumbles out of the bed on legs numb from sitting so long, but he ignores the pain. He staggers into the fresher and the light turns on with a simple wave of his hand. He pulls off his shirt and watches, fixated on the long winding scars from the lashes, the starbursts from the shock probes. The scars look faded and years old. For him though it happened just moments ago, weeks ago. His head hurts from the conflicting memories. He has trouble aligning the memories from the past weeks, they don’t quite fit him, there’s a dreamlike quality to them, a mixture of apathy and intense bursts of emotions. 

He looks up to meet his own eyes, they look too big in his thin face. He remembers the starvation and then after the rescue not really having much in the way of an appetite, merely eating because it was expected. There’s a faded scar running down the right side of his face, just short of taking out his right eye. 

A fresh bruise sits on his right cheek and he remembers the two officers, and now understands the dark skinned one’s anger. It doesn’t take a genius to guess the man’s brother had been on the Death Star. In war it is often hard to pin deaths on individuals, but with the Death Star he had fired the one decisive shot. 

He shudders, strips entirely and showers to rid himself of the crawling sensation all over his body. It doesn’t work, but his hair is no longer plastered to his face with cold sweat, so he considers that a plus. He wants to scream and rage, but he feels utterly tapped out. Absently he towels himself. Leaves the dirty clothing on the floor because he couldn’t care less.

He enters the main room and drops himself stomach down onto the bunk, drawing the numerous blankets over himself. Under his pillow his hand curls around the familiar shape of the hydrospanner. His breath sticks in his throat. He refuses to cry anymore. He clamps down hard on the bond with Vader not letting a single thing through, when what he truly wants is for him to be here and wrap him up in his dark protective presence. 

 

Oo o oO

 

Piett enters the bridge at exactly 1400 hours after much needed rest and sees his crew in place as expected. He doesn’t expect Lord Vader at the viewport, however. He stands in his customary place looking at the blue hyperspace lines, that part is not so strange, the strange part is him being present an hour before estimated time of arrival. Also judging by the relative calm of the bridge crew, he’s been there long enough for them to _almost_ forget his presence. 

Captain Venka comes over, he looks rested and must have left the bridge too at some point. There’s visible relief on his face as he looks at Piett, which with Lord Vader on the bridge is understandable; very few people exactly _like_ being the highest ranking officer in Vader’s presence. Piett wonders sometimes what it says about him, that he enjoys his job.

“Admiral, everything is running smoothly” Venka greets, he hands over a datapad, “The report you asked for.”

Piett nods in thanks, and focuses back on Lord Vader, there’s something off about him. 

“How long has Lord Vader been standing there?” He asks lowly. 

Venka can’t quite hold back the distressed way his lips draw downwards; “longer than I’ve been on bridge, so at least 3 hours…”

Piett frowns. A niggle of something like worry making him restless. He needs to do something with his hands. He turns the datapad on with a swipe, and the simple medical report does manage to distract him for a moment. He goes to the next report and he’s pleasantly surprised; both lieutenants Felt and Brooch are alive. 

They’ve suffered some sufficiently painful concussions and bruises, but they are both expected to make a full recovery. Piett finds his eyebrows raising slightly. He really thought they’d been killed with the way they were flung around like rag dolls. The fact that they are alive, has some interesting implications and Skywalker had pleaded for their survival with Vader before taking matters into his own hands.

Piett looks back up at Lord Vader. He hasn’t moved at all since Piett entered the bridge. Something is definitely not right. 

 

Oo o oO

 

Vader stares numbly out the viewport. Time has no meaning. He had thought himself done with these weaker emotions, yet here he is. He knew it would end like this, he thought he had accepted Luke’s inevitable hatred and rejection, but he had not been prepared. 

For one single moment he had held all that was Luke in his hands, but then he’d lost him. Stupidly, Luke’s certainty that he could never hate his father had allowed a flicker of hope in Vader’s chest; but he had always been a fool. He closes his tired eyes. Tries desperately to banish the vision of Luke’s sneer and glare as he told him not to touch him. Luke who only a day before would lean into his touch, who would smile brilliantly despite what he’d been through. 

Luke has closed down their bond, so tightly he barely feels his presence on the ship and getting any kind of read on him is impossible. He has gotten used to Luke’s bright presence like an extension of his own. Without it he is bereft. How fast he’d fallen into old weaknesses. 

He wants to move on. He envies the cursed Jedi their ability to let go, to not care. But he cannot ignore this, cannot allow himself to repress this, to forget his boy who was so afraid of disappearing, yet brave enough to face it anyway. 

At least for a short while, he’s experienced what the love of a son can feel like. It will have to do. 

 

Oo o oO

 

Luke sleeps fitfully, and startles awake when the ship reverts to real space. He doesn’t feel rested, but there’s an urgency pumping in his veins. He doesn’t know what it is. His head hurts. 

Keeping a firm clamp on his bond with Vader, he slowly relaxes his shields, the Force slams into him like a sandstorm, he can’t make heads or tails of things. He rubs his temples. It takes a moment for him to acclimate, for the storm to settle. He takes a deep breath. He slowly reaches outwards, careful of being overwhelmed, nothing stands out. He reaches further, unsure what he is looking for amongst the undercurrent bubbling of excitement on the ship. A single faraway cry of pain and his senses sharpens in that direction. 

The knowledge comes tumbling forth, there are rebel prisoners aboard the ship being tortured. 

His breath sticks in his throat and he clenches his hands. Anger bubbles in his chest as he gets out of bed, anger at Vader and anger at himself. He is not surprised the Empire uses torture, he knows viscerally and with the scars to prove it, but for two weeks he’s had a caring father. A father he had suspected, but didn’t want to believe, was involved in the atrocities committed. 

Vader had told Luke with absolute certainty, and so much sorrow, that Luke would hate him once he remembered, because he was Darth Vader. And Luke hadn’t understood, but he does now. His chest _hurts_. He blinks back tears refusing to cry anymore. He has a mission.

He opens the closet, eyes skipping past the loose grey clothing he’s been wearing for two weeks now, more suited for pajamas than what he’s about to do, and land on the lean black set in a military cut. There are no boots but it will have to do. 

He dresses quickly and leaves the room. The hallways aren’t deserted this time, it’s no longer after a battle in which all non essential personnel bunk down for rest. The ship is out of hyperspace and likely restocking supplies. That would be the logical course of action after a battle. 

He walks with purpose. A group of officers does a double take and skitters out of his way fearfully. A lone stormtrooper stares after him with the blank black visored gaze. 

He finds the same turbo lift as last time and enters the cell block. He recognizes the officer in the control room as the one he stunned last time he was here. He’s watching the door carefully this time around, having learnt from his mistake. He meets Luke’s eyes, and Luke raises a challenging eyebrow at him. His eyes widen in terrible recognition and he hunkers down behind the consoles. 

Being Darth Vader’s son really does a number on the Imperials on this ship, Luke muses darkly. A hint of nausea curls in his stomach but he cannot deny how convenient it is. 

He follows the siren song of pain and stops in front of a cell that cries out in the Force. He takes a deep steadying breath, he can do this. He waves a hand and the door opens. Three sets of eyes look up to meet his. Two pairs belong to Interrogation Officers, the last pair is glazed from pain and looks feverish from drugs.

Absently the officer with the shock prod continues the movement he’d been in the middle of and pokes the prisoner once more. The man convulses and screams and Luke doesn’t know what happens. 

He blinks and he’s in the cell; the interrogation officer has dropped the prod in favor of clawing at nonexistent hands holding him into the air by the throat. He struggles, wheezes for air, his legs kicking out desperately. 

The other interrogation officer has pressed himself to the wall, eyeing Luke with wide horrified eyes. 

Luke looks from his outstretched mechanical hand half clenched in the direction of the choking officer and back to the struggling man. His lips are turning blue, his eyes bulge outwards, his struggle has lessened slightly. He’s tiring.

Abruptly Luke realizes he’s the one who’s doing it. He drops his connection to the Force like a molten rock. He takes a step back, breathing hard. 

The officer falls to the ground like a rag doll. Luke doesn’t care, his breath comes too fast and he looks at his mechanical hand, the one Vader cut off in anger after Luke managed to wound him... He’s spent nights wondering how someone could maim their own child. Luke had been severely outmatched, surely _Darth Vader_ could have found a way to subdue him without cutting off his hand. He clenches metal fingers together with a click. Luke has no memory of attacking the interrogation officer. He didn’t decide to do that. He just reacted. He cannot _remember_ what happened. He feels faint. Cloudy spots dance in his vision. He holds his breath. 

He remembers the cave on Dagobah; his own face staring back from beneath Vader’s broken mask. A warning or a prophecy? He has never before had the Force react like this to his emotions. A heavy weight settles in his chest. Is this the power of the dark side? Is he falling? Forever doomed for a dark path? 

After receiving proper training from Yoda, he’d come far, much further than what he’d managed on his own, but it is like the Force is even closer now. He feels raw and exposed, throat tight. He doesn’t think the Force feels different. It is warm and bright, overwhelming in its intensity if he delves too deep. But it responds too easily; no long moments where he has to concentrate. Luke has the Force at his fingertips, with him in every breath. If he looses control people _die_.

Behind him the strung up rebel groans, Luke feels the man’s attention sharpen from the previous blur it had been before. He’d been out of it from the shock probe combined with the drugs, which meant he hadn’t actually witnessed Luke’s loss of control. 

He glares at the officer by the wall. “Get him,” he commands, and nods at the officer he’d near strangled; “and get out.” 

The officer scrambles to his colleague and drags him out.

Luke takes a deep breath, then moves around to the front of the hanging rebel. Expecting another Imperial, the man looks up at Luke with tired, fearful brown eyes. It takes a moment then they widen and he looks Luke up and down. He squints and whispers like he can’t believe it;

“Commander Skywalker?”

“Yes,” Luke gives him a tight smile, “let’s get you down from there.” He deliberatelyraises his hands near the chains, but simply uses the Force to open them; suppresses a shudder at the ease. He catches the man as he slumps forward.

“What’s going on?” He asks in a mumble.

“I’m getting you out of here,” Luke answers and tugs the man’s arm over his shoulder. The man staggers forward with him, his head trained down on the ground as he tries to walk.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he comments in confusion, and Luke swallows an almost hysterical laugh. 

“Don’t worry you’re not hallucinating, come on.” 

They walk out into the hallway, from down the hall Luke catches the fearful officers looking, before scrambling out of his sight. He shakes his head, and deposits the man at the wall, before reaching out with the Force to find the remaining rebels. He deliberately uses the panels to open the cell doors, and in no time at all he has a tired and motley crew of rebels; five humans, a twilek, a mon calamari, a togruta and a rodian. 

Nobody he knows. A knot in his chest loosens. He resents himself for being so relieved. 

They all look grateful but confused, the majority recognizes him, the few that don’t had been convinced by the rest that he is trustworthy. He’d heard the Death Star mentioned amongst them. He breathes steadily and carefully, looking unseeingly down the hall. He can’t look too close at them, doesn’t want to risk loosing control of himself again. He doesn’t look at the bruises or the cuts. He avoids the pained and curious gazes. His hands are sweaty and he clenches them reflexively. He takes a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself, Luke. It didn’t used to be this hard.

He glanced vaguely across the group without really focusing on them.

“Is this everyone?”

There are vague nods, and noises of agreement, and Luke looks back towards the exit with relief.

“All right, come on.”

 

Oo o oO 

 

Lord Vader is still at the viewport. To Piett’s knowledge he hasn’t moved at all. He could of course have moved, Piett has better things to do than look at Lord Vader constantly, though he can’t help the worried glances he sends once in a while.

The resupplying is going smoothly, the Star Destroyers are near loaded up, it is only the Executor from sheer size that will take longer to load. 

He looks back at Lord Vader, still apparently no movement. He drums his fingers on the datapad in his hand, debating the merits of talking to his superior. His lips tilt downward, logically it would be a good way to be strangled, but if it goes on for much longer Piett feels he might have to.

“Admiral, I have a comm for you,” one of the junior communications officers calls interrupting his thoughts. Relieved to be distracted from his line of thought, he walks into the trench.

“What have you got for me?”

He hands the headset over. 

“Officer Greeta, from Detention level 05.”

Piett holds the headset up to his right ear.

“Admiral Piett, speaking.”

“Admiral,” the man breathes relieved, them continued frantically, his breath heavy, “Skywalker’s here, on the detention level.” Then suddenly like he’s further away, and not speaking directly into the communicator anymore; “what happened to you?!”

Piett held the receiver closer to his ear, but all he hears is mumbles. 

“Officer, report,” he orders and the officer comes back, sounding shaken.

“Skywalker is freeing the rebel prisoners, Admiral, he-” Piett hears the way he swallows fearfully, “-he lifted Officer Brintt clear off the ground without touching him and _choked_ him! Is it true what they say? Is he really Lord Vader-“

“Just stand down, officer,” Piett interrupts, not wanting to get into that, “don’t engage him. Just let him leave, I will deal with it.”

Piett clicks off the call, and walks up to Lord Vader by the viewport.

“Milord.”

It takes longer than usual for Lord Vader to respond. He turns his head slightly in Piett’s direction.

“Yes, Admiral?”

Piett hesitates a moment, unsure exactly how to refer to Skywalker.

“Your son-” he finally settles on, speaking quietly so that their conversation isn’t overheard, “-is freeing rebel prisoners on the detention level. What are your orders, Sir?”

Vader looks back out the viewport. “Nothing.”

“ _Nothing?_ ” Piett cannot believe what he is hearing.

“Just…” there’s a pause and the respirator hisses a long drawn out breath, “let him do what he wants…”

Piett catches sight of his own wide eyed, open mouthed face in the viewport reflection and closes his mouth. He blinks, and unconsciously shakes his head. Lord Vader sounds so… _resigned_. Piett feels strange, unsettled, like his world is no longer right. 

What happened between Skywalker and Vader? Surely it could not be due to that small outburst Skywalker had on the bridge?

He clenches his jaw, turns around and walks off the bridge. Something has changed and there’s so much Piett doesn’t know, but he knows one thing; Lord Vader isn’t meant to sound like that. 

Lord Vader intends to present Skywalker at court, to claim him as his son despite his previous rebel activities. Skywalker going around freeing rebel prisoners at this point, after Lord Vader basically claimed he’d switched sides, now that he knows the truth of their relation, is not going to reflect well on Vader. This is not something Piett will accept. His loyalty is to Lord Vader and that might come to include his son as well, but for the moment the only thing he truly knows of the rebel turned Imperial Prince is that he’s an extraordinary pilot and has a knack for last minute escapes.

 

Oo o oO

 

They walk to the control room. The Mon Calamari and the Twilek supports the man Luke had rescued first as he was the most recent to receive the _Imperial Hospitality_. 

The three Imperial officers are huddled around the communication console. Luke closes his eyes in a sigh, Vader knows for sure what he’s doing know.

His only warning is a flash of rage from behind him, reflexively he grabs a hold of the rebel as he passes him intent on taking out the Imperials. 

“No, don’t.” Luke says, eyes drawn invariably to the interrogation officer fearfully holding his throat, he is just a man now, brought to the same low as his many victims. Luke doesn’t know how to feel. His head pounds, and he sighs. “They are no threat. Let’s just move on.”

He senses the man’s struggle with his anger, and it hits too close to home. Eventually he shrugs Luke’s hands off with a glare at Luke, eyes a hard grey, vivid green bruises covering his face. Luke struggles for breath. The man moves ahead of the group. 

A hand lands on Luke’s shoulder, and he near jumps out of his skin. His head snaps to the side, it’s one of the women. 

“Don’t mind Kistan, Commander,” she raises her voice so as to be heard; “he’s more bark than bite.”

Kistan flips her off over his shoulder.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Luke sighs.

“I’m Ria, by the way,” she comments with a friendly smile that stretches the purple bruises on her dark skin, they match the purple highlights in her wild hair. 

Luke nods politely, inwardly he wants to scream. He just wants to get them out of here, he cannot deal, he doesn’t want to relate, to know these people. He needs distance.

They enter the Turbolift after Kistan. Luke chooses a button that feels right. The silence is oppressive. Luke makes the mistake of the meeting the eyes of the first man he’d freed, he smiles back at him;

“I still don’t understand why you’re not wearing footwear.”

It draws the attention of the rest of the rebels to his sock-clad feet. Kistan looks at him suspiciously.

Luke crosses his arms. “I don’t know where my boots are.”

Kistan gets into his face, he’s a head taller than Luke. “Some things don’t add up.”

Luke glares back. Luke understands Kistan’s feelings; the overwhelming fear of recapture, channeled into anger. He understands the desperation and suspicion, it’s stupid but the fact that he’s not wearing boots makes it obvious he didn’t come from off the ship to stage a rescue. Leaving three Imperial officers unrestrained with access to communication was another point against him. But he will not simply take this. The Force is at the back of his mind eagerly awaiting his call. Instead he lays a hand flat on the man’s chest and firmly pushes him back.

“I am getting you out of here, if that is not good enough for you, you are free to go back to the cells.” He holds Kistan’s gaze until he looks away. The air is tense and he feels the rest of their worry and nagging suspicion like a constant battering at his head. 

“When did they capture you?” Ria asks softly and Luke’s gaze snaps to hers. He clenches suddenly shaking hands. He can’t take the compassion in her bruised face. He doesn’t know the answer to her question. They are from a different rebel cell they won’t know the mission he was on, time held little meaning on Rothana. 

He shakes his head; “I don’t know, weeks ago, more than three.”

“So you cut a deal,” Kistan spits, crossing his arms

“I did not!” Luke raises his voice, at the same moment the lift doors open behind Luke and he spins around with a scowl. The small squad of troopers and the Imperial Officer standing there back up fearfully, leaving room for the group to exit.

“Come,” Luke snaps and stalks down the hallway. He senses more than sees the way they fearfully move past the passive troopers and jog to catch up to his determined stride. 

“What the _kriff_ just happened?” 

Luke doesn’t answer, he focuses on walking, letting the Force guide him.

“They could have easily taken us, we have no weapons!”

His heart beats fast in his chest. They pass more Imperials that almost jump out of his way. He supposes this would not be so easy on any other ship where the threat of Vader is distant, but here on Vader’s flagship his possible wrath is very real, and nobody dares touch him. 

“They are afraid of you.”

Luke scoffs; “Not _me,_ ” feels a dark satisfaction at the way it stumps Kistan.

They turn a corner and Luke stops dead. Walking towards them is a pale, severe looking Imperial Officer, not much taller than Luke, and he does not get out of the way. The moment he sees Luke he stops; stands in the middle of the hallway like a challenge. 

Luke senses danger and this time he doesn’t manage to hold Kistan back. It’s not the officer who’s in danger, it’s Kistan. Luke doesn’t see the officer move with Kistan’s body blocking, but one moment the rebel is attacking the officer the next he’s turned around, incapacitated with an arm twisted behind his back.

The officer raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Luke, before pushing Kistan back to Luke. Luke recognizes it for the peace offering it is, and reaches an arm out to wordlessly stop any retaliation.

Luke’s eyes flicker to the rank plate and widen in recognition, he grimaces; admiral, the rank right underneath Vader on the ship. There can only be two reasons why he would confront them without backup: he is either stupid or very confident, and being the Admiral of Death Squadron Luke doubts it is the first option. 

“Admiral,” he greets warily, meeting the calm, fearless hazel eyes.

“Your Highness.” 


End file.
